Grandma's Indian Necklacebysr71plt©
The beautiful young woman was on her way, in a coach and under military escort, across the eastern Colorado plains to the side of her elderly husband, the commander of Fort Hayden in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. They were only a short distance from their destination when the small tribe of renegade Indians attacked them.
There was little hope the coach could outrun the swift horses of the attackers, and there were only two soldiers and the coach driver against at least six Indian braves. The driver passed a rifle through the window to the commander's wife and told her to hold on tight and not to waste her ammunition as the coach lurched down the rutted trail at speeds it was never built to endure.
The woman looked out of the window in the coach door through the sights of the rifle. She'd never seen near-naked Indian savages before, and what she saw made her heart leap into her throat. Out in front of the riders paralleling the coach and shooting at the escorts was the one who surely must be the leader. He was barebacking a huge golden palomino stallion with a flowing white mane. The woman had never seen such a magnificent savage beast—and she thought the horse looked quite nice too. The man was bronzed, nearly naked, and formed well enough to start any woman's juices aflow. Long, straight, jet-black hair flowed behind the man's head as he and the horse galloped along in an undulating motion of rolling, syncopated muscled perfection. A breastplate of feathers and turquoise beads pounded back and forth on a strong, deep chest, which tapered down to a tight waist and strong thighs, pressing closely against his horse, giving it expert directions.
The woman fantasized about those strong thighs, about those thighs pressing between hers, but then she shook her head and took a bead on the beautiful bronzed hunk.
But she couldn't do it. She'd hate herself if she hit the horse, and be absolutely mortified if she hit that luscious hunk of manflesh. She fell back into the cushioned seat of the coach and breathed hard, trying to get herself under control.
The coach made for a formation of red rocks in the foothills of the Rockies and managed to separate from the pursuing Indians long enough to pull between two partially concealing boulders. The escorts madly pulled at the traces holding the horses to the coach, freeing the steeds from the cumbersome vehicle. The door of the coach jerked open, and the driver stuck his head in.
"It's no use trying to shake 'em, Ma'am. We can't outdistance them, and they'll figure out where we are and be back any minute."
"But, but . . . ," the woman stuttered in confusion.
"Can you ride a horse, Ma'am?"
"Certainly I can," she exploded in indignation.
"Then we have a plan. The commander will have our hides if you don't get to the fort safely. Me and the escorts are going to ride out in that direction over there and let the Injuns see us. They'll give us chase, and then we want you to ride off straight down in that direction over there. It shouldn't take you more than an hour to get to the fort, if you can ride straight. Do you think you can do that?"
"Of course I can," she said. "Just leave me a good horse."
"You'll get the best, Ma'am. Sorry we can't do better, but this has the best chance of workin'."
Moments later the three men broke cover on three of the coach horses and managed to put some distance between them and the hidden coach before the Indian renegades saw them and took chase.
They hadn't distanced themselves enough, though, for the young and wily leader of the tribe. He didn't give chase. He traced the trajectory of the three men with his eyes and worked his sights back, where he managed to see a bit of the coach at the edge of one of the boulders. He let his braves take chase, and he turned his horse toward the coach. He dearly wondered what precious cargo justified two military escorts.
The coach appeared deserted when he rode up to it and got off his horse. He unsheathed a long knife, pulled the door of the coach open wide, and leaped in. There was a brief commotion in the coach and then a bloodcurdling scream.
The young, virile Indian chieftain had been completely nonplused when he leaped into the coach. The last thing he had expected to see was a beautiful, yellow-haired white woman, draped across the coach seat, her back arched over a tapestry valise so that her breasts jutted out nicely—and completely naked. The shock of discovery had put him off enough that she had pulled him to her by his hips, ripped off his loincloth, and had wrapped her lips around his horse-hung member and started to suck him hard before he was able to react.
He was greatly conflicted. She was doing divine things to his cock with her mouth, but she was supposed to be deathly fearful of him. The scenario was set. The Indian braves raped the screaming and crying white woman when they could to terrorize the invaders and encourage them to go back to wherever they had come from. This vixen was raping him. This would never do. That's when the bloodcurdling scream occurred—and he was the one screaming in shock and frustration.
The Indian brave had to take charge. He pushed the woman's back into the corner of the seat with a strong hand between her breasts, her legs stretched down the seat, and came down between her legs with his knees. The woman laughed, spread her legs, gripped his engorging cock in both hands, and pulled his formidable battleram into her cunt. She was rubbing the head of his cock on her clit, unhooding it with his sensitive member, and working herself into a heavy-flow frenzy.
He gave a roar of anger, slapped her hands away from his cock, and gripped it with one of his own hands. He pushed his dick away from her clit, adjusted the angle of the spear's attack, and sheathed it far up her cunt.
The woman covered him in tinkling laughter again and, first, grabbed his head between her hands and buried it between her heaving breasts and then reached down and cupped his muscled butt cheeks and pulled his pelvis more closely into hers. His cock was lost in the sweet flow of her. He sank in farther and farther down her canal, his cock being grabbed and massaged by undulating muscles making love to him and covering him with her sweet juices. She wrapped her legs under his buttocks and added thrust to his frenzied stroking.
The blonde she devil actually wanted him to fuck her. He'd never had this happen before. Although he'd suspected that one or two of them had enjoyed his cock thrusting into them a lot more than they could admit and continued to struggle against him to the last for the mere form of it, he'd never had one pull him into her and make clear she wanted him hard, heavy, fast, and deep. And this was the most beautiful and voluptuous white woman he'd ever encountered.
Lust quickly won out over his hatred of the white man in all his forms, and he gave into her shared and equal sexual frenzy. The coach rocked back and forth on squeaking hinges, and they fucked wilding, and then languidly, for nearly two hours, in all the positions he knew of and then some new ones that she taught him. And he spilled his seed in three separate willing and moist and delightful orifices—repeatedly and with variety and intensity unknown before on the Western plains.
Her body milked him dry of all of his virile fluids, again and again, and left him, drowsy and exhausted and fully satiated, moaning softly and lying on the floor of the coach.
A little more than an hour later, a sentry on the wall of Fort Hayden gave a cry that sent everyone inside scurrying for the gates, and the commander's wife, blonde hair flowing behind her, clothes hurriedly redraped and disheveled, galloped into the center of the compound. She had briefly considered that she'd have made a much more impressive entrance, if she'd taken the Indian stud's magnificent stallion, but she couldn't think of any way to explain that away. So, she did the best she could with the coach horse that had been left to aid her escape.
The residents of the fort rejoiced and celebrated, and her doting, old husband was beside himself with his joy at her deliverance from danger. It was hours before she found herself alone in her new bedroom and was able to remove the feathered and turquoise-beaded breastplate covering her chest underneath her dress. She carefully hid it away, knowing that she would never be able to reveal where and under what circumstances she had acquired it.